The Structural Composition of Folly
by JessamyGriffith
Summary: John convinces Sherlock to join the Greatest International Scavenger Hunt the World Has Ever Seen, the brainchild of Misha 'Castiel' Collins. Can Sherlock rise to the challenge? Is he in it to win it? And will John ever be the same after it's over?
1. Let's Murder Sherlock!

**Written for a prompt on the Sherlock BBC Kink Meme. Prompt : **Dear all, I just came off a 10-day bender on GISHWHES. What I want - Sherlock (and whomever else you'd like) doing GISHWHES and in it to own it. PLEASE_ohplease_please-**  
><strong>

* * *

><p><strong>What is GISHWHES, you may ask?<strong>

Why it's the Greatest International Scavenger Hunt the World Has Ever Seen. This is the brain child of the mad but often hilarious Misha Collins. Misha started a charity called Random Acts. This scavenger hunt was a way to raise money for the charity since participants had to pay a minimum of $10 to register. The idea for GISHWHES was hatched when Misha did a much smaller scavenger hunt last year with rhino puzzle pieces. It was such a huge success and a lot of fun. The plan was to make it bigger and better. Not only big but Guinness World record big. The winning team would also be flown to Italy for a spaghetti dinner with Misha.

Misha's Minions naturally joined by the thousands. So many joined that they broke the registration. Misha's response:

"I have to say I'm kind of proud that your saboteur rate was not, 1 or 2 people, but about 20% of registrants. You're very anti-establishment!"

* * *

><p>**Author notes - all emails are direct and hilarious quotes or redacted from actual emails sent to GISHWHESians from Misha. They were too good not to be shared with everyone.<p>

**Of course it is a crack story with some schmoop thrown in. What can I say?

* * *

><p>..<p>

..

**Part One - Let's Murder Sherlock!  
><strong>

**The blog of Dr John H Watson**

[November 16th, 2011]  
>[Another Day in Baker Street]<br>[It was -]

John sighed over his laptop, which had been wrenched from Sherlock's grasp fifteen minutes earlier. He'd gone through his emails, and was attempting to update his blog. Not a case, no, he could only wish. He'd be doing quite well if wasn't for the arrhythmic pizzicato plucking from Sherlock's violin that kept breaking his concentration.

"Sherlock, could you please stop?" he asked finally, nerves shredded under the relentless dissonance.

Silence reigned for all of one minute during which John tried to gather his thoughts before the plucking started again. John pressed the heels of hands to his eyes. _God. _He'd like to escape and go for a walk, maybe kip at Sarah's but it was filthy outside, a cold November drizzle. He bent over his blog, jaw clenched tight enough to ache and hammered out a few sentences.

[It was a dark and stormy night. Inside as well as out, metaphorically speaking, because if my flatmate the genius detective five-year old didn't stop torturing that violin, I would break it over his head. If not worse. Do you people have any idea what it is like living here some days? Trust me, the benefits are FULLY balanced by the detriments.]

An unearthly shriek heralded worse things to come: Sherlock had picked up the bow. John's fingers twitched.

[It's been a quiet week without any cases bhnkljkir]

No amount of benefits later in bed would make up for this torment. Even if Sherlock really, _really_ tried. John would _make_his lanky lover try, and it still would not be enough.

"Homicide," John said, conversationally, tasting the word. A pleasing word, rounded on the tongue. _Will they blame me? The Scotland Yarders? For killing him?_

Sherlock sat up quickly, bow falling onto the sofa cushions. "What? Where? Is it on news sites?"

"No. You. As in, are about to be a victim of. If you don't stop."

Sherlock flopped back with a loud sigh. "Oh. Threats. Tedious."

"Yes, I know you are bored! Mrs. Hudson knows, the married ones next door know! For God's sake, Sherlock! Give it a rest!"

"I need something. Work. A diversion." Sherlock's hand was crawling toward the bow again.

John's mind froze in panic, then cast about frantically for something to interest Sherlock. It was the genius of last-ditch mental self-defence that came up with the answer, and John blurted the last thing he'd read in his email from an old friend.

"GISHWHES."

The large pale hand stopped its spidery creep. "Gesundheit."

"No, GISHWHES."

"What, pray tell, is Gishwhes?"

"Something to occupy your brain for a while. Until we have a case. It's a scavenger hunt."

"I'm not five years old, John."

"That's debatable," muttered John.

"I heard that! Fine." Sherlock threw an arm over his eyes and gestured at John. "Go on then. Tell me what kind of scavenger hunt could possibly occupy my mind."

"Well, I was just reading about it, a mate of mine has joined. It's the Greatest International Scavenger Hunt the World Has Ever Seen. Some actor fellow, name of Misha Collins and some friends have set it up. They want to set a record in the Guinness Book of World Records, and have got people signed up from all over the world."

"Mm." The noise was non-committal. Not good. John went on, a bit desperately.

"You get put on a team, the final list of items to be scavenged goes up this Saturday and you have a deadline. All the items have points attached. Some of the ones from last year look quite challenging, actually."

There was a a notable lack of response. In the silence, John almost could hear the violin twanging of inevitable homicide creeping towards him. He hastily pulled up the website for GISHWHES, and turned off the yodelling sound of the video. _Ah, here._

"Most of these are photo challenges, can't be retouched. Like - Take a photo of a skateboarder wearing a wig in front of Buckingham Palace. You have all those friends on the street, you could have done that one -"

"Too easy," the deep voice intoned. John twitched. _You could use the violin strings, garotte him - not good, Watson, not good._He plunged on.

"A child swimming or bathing in a tub full of cranberries ."

"Mm. Bizarre. Small challenge involved there."

"Getting cranberries?"

"No, borrowing a child." His flatmate shuddered fastidiously. John clenched his teeth.

"A person setting up a tent on a traffic island. They must also unroll a sleeping bag and get in it and zip the tent shut."

The arm covering Sherlock's eyes lifted slowly. "That one - has a certain amount of interest. The civic disobedience alone is intriguing."

"A person in a small, motor-less water-craft on the Yangtze River." Sherlock's eyes narrowed - doubtless, John thought, trying to think of any acquaintance he could talk into doing the photo for him. "And my favourite from last year - A projection of an image at least 20 feet wide of Misha Collins on an exterior wall of a federal government building at night." John said it casually, but he knew Sherlock and his likely reaction to this.

Sherlock's hands tightened on the violin resting on his chest. A smile began to spread over his face. He opened his mouth but John beat him to it.

"No, I don't think they would have minded the projection being bigger, and yes, Mycroft would have a fit if you did that on Parliament."

Sherlock was indignant. "Only if I was caught, John!" He swung his legs over and sat up again. "All right. I'm in. I can always delete the data afterwards if it is too silly. And if a case comes up..."

"Good thing too, registration ends tonight." John began to pass his laptop over to Sherlock but paused. "No. No, I don't think so."

"What?" Sherlock lifted a brow. "You were the one contemplating my murder just now, John, and by the way, I'm very proud of you for doing so, I do like to see you stretch your mind a little. The violin strings would have worked very well, by the by."

John snorted - no surprise that Sherlock had seen the speculation in John's true-blue eyes like twinned TV sets. _Murder Flatmate at 9:30, followed by the news!_

Sherlock continued, "So, why shouldn't I join this scavenger hunt to forestall my demise at your hands?"

"It _is _too easy." John let the laptop rest on his leg. "You need it to be a bit more challenging."

Sherlock had an impatient look on his face. "Well? The whole thing seems absurd, but imaginative. What do you suggest? It's your idea. My life rests in your little hands."

"My hands are _not_ little, only compared to yours, and I think you've been happy enough about the size on occasion? Shut up a minute." John thought a moment, tapping his lip. "Well. You could use a random number generator to choose your assignments."

"What if it is not feasible for me to complete it? Because of geographical distance, or materials?"

"I'll be the arbiter - I'll judge whether you can reasonably do the challenge. And don't forget, Sherlock, it's a team endeavour. You'll have others who can help or will find items. Oh!"

"What?"

"You have the skills. Set up a site or location online for your team to communicate."

"Social media. Easy enough."

"Lastly - to help set the record, each team must submit at least five completed items. But you know what? I think you are more than capable of that, Sherlock. I think you can do at least five items by yourself." John let a smirk flit over his lips. Sherlock's eyes narrowed.

"I see." The voice was dark and intent. "Are you sure this is not some elaborate ruse on your part to keep me from my stringed improvisations?"

"I'll string you up, you skinny bastard, if you even look at that violin again in the next ten days. In other words, you are perfectly correct, detective. Are we agreed?"

Sherlock thrust out his hand and John leaned over to shake it. Sherlock sighed, rubbing the back of John's knuckles. The motion made something glow warmly in John's stomach.

"John?"

"Hm?" John dragged his mind back from the warm and slightly erotic place it had wandered off to.

"I wanted you to pass me your laptop."

John jerked his hand free with a scowl and thrust the laptop at his smirking lover. "I'm taking a shower and going to bed."

Later, just as he was on the edge of sleep, the bed dipped and a long bare arm wrapped itself around his waist. A voice growled in his ear, lips tickling. "The hunt doesn't start until Saturday. And if I'm not to play violin, I need something to occupy myself in the interim."

"Oh, well then. " John rolled over and prepared himself for his fate. "I'm entirely at your disposal, hunter."


	2. Sherlock's Ten

**Part Two - Sherlock's Ten**

Friday, November 18th 2011  
>From: Misha Collins<br>Date: November 18th,  
>To: <span><span>  
>Subject: Where is my Team email?<p>

_Email: GISHWHESHEANS,_

Unfortunately, many of you thought it would be hilarious when you were registering to enter "imaginary" friends into the requested team-mate field including "Misha Collins", "the Queen of England" and "Sherlock Holmes"...

-Misha Collins

* * *

><p>Sherlock scowled at his laptop. "Ridiculous."<p>

John looked up from his paper. "Mm?" It had been relatively quiet since Sherlock had signed up for the scavenger hunt and he'd made good on his threat to fill the intervening hours with activity other than violin playing. The memory made John flush and shift slightly. _Oh yes._

"We were to have our teams assigned. But some people signed up fictional characters! How idiotic can people be?"

"Rhetorical question, but I'll answer anyway. Very, but then some people have a sense of humour." John grinned at the glower Sherlock flung at him. He got up and looked over Sherlock's shoulder. "So what's the problem? No team mates consisting of, let's see... How about Guy Fawkes, that would have been fun."

"The database failed. They have to do it 'by hand'." Sherlock sniffed extravagantly. "Really, I don't know if I am more annoyed by humanity's poor sense of humour, or the fact that the GISHWHES system wasn't able to weed out to false registrants."

John shook with silent laughter. He snaked an arm around Sherlock's tense torso and squeezed. When that failed to engender a response, he ruffled back the curly fringe and pressed a kiss to the pale brow. "Not everyone has your brilliant knack with computers, love. You could whip a program up in an afternoon, right? How to exclude Abraham Lincoln and the Queen and their emails from the database? Send it to the poor sods, they obviously need you."

A smile reluctantly turned up the corners of Sherlock's mouth, and he relaxed slightly, leaning his head back against John's stomach. "Well. I could. But again, my vast knowledge of humanity informs me that there are actual people with names that seem quite... fictional. There could very well be a real Abe Lincoln. Not worth my time."

"So, in the meantime?" John queried hopefully. He wasn't at the clinic today and some afternoon's delight seemed... delightful.

"Misha tells us to prepare. By collecting... beer cozies? A comptometer. Kale! And finding a Nobel Prize winner. Well. At least the bar is being set high. Sir Robert G. Edwards is still at Cambridge..."

John sighed, but so long as Sherlock was entertained, he'd live. "Well. Best get on with it, my brave hunter." He looked down as Sherlock butted his stomach with his head. The detective's eyes were half-lidded, looking up through a fringe of lashes. "Oh ho. You like that. My hunter."

A lazy smile flickered across Sherlock's lips, and he reached up to grasp John's collar, tugging him down. "Well spotted. There's something I think I can scavenge - starting now."

"I hope I'm worth a goodly number of points," murmured John as he pressed his lips against Sherlock's.

"For such a unique item?" Sherlock nipped at the underside of his jaw. "Infinitesimal."


	3. Potato

**Part Three - Potato**

From: Misha Collins  
>Date: Sunday, November 20th, 2011<p>

To: Jennifer Bondy clarinetz**, Christine T. Brown cbrown**, Luca Santiago LcaSanta4*, Sherlock Holmes .uk, Jolie Smith smith***.edu, Shiobhan McKane smckane**, Katrinka van den Steene gelatto2*, Lesley Anderson anders3**, Jamie Coally fak**, Tara Lee Brooke Tara***

Subject: To GISHWHES Team #221

Well, this is it. You are Team #221 and this is your team. If you have a problem with anyone on your team, work it out - that's life.

I hope this waiting time has given those of you who see internet data forms as stages for comedy some time to reflect. We did our best to put you on the teams you wanted, but it wasn't always possible. Now is your time to grieve... Now is the time to stop grieving... Now we're moving on...

Please notify us if you find that you are on two teams... You cannot actually do the Hunt on two teams, so you must immediately notify us IMMEDIATELY...

Alright. We are setting the Item List countdown clock for 29 minutes. And this time when the clock runs out, the final Item List will be posted on the site and the Greatest (by a factor of 10) International Scavenger Hunt the World Has Ever Seen will begin!

-Misha

* * *

><p>John hummed a little tune in satisfaction. His spur-of-the-moment idea was working out, keeping Sherlock's brain employed and the flat violin-screech free. Sherlock had already set up a password-protected web page for his team members, appointing himself as de facto captain. He was working up a spreadsheet for the items to be filled in by team-mates. A separate section of the site was for sharing the pictures and videos finished by the team.<p>

"You ready? Is the list out yet?" Sherlock glared at him sideways and hit F5 again. His eyes focussed on the spread of information now available and began scanning down the list of items to be scavenged.

"Two hundred nineteen items," he muttered, and immediately copied and pasted it into his group's database, sending an alert to his team. "I hope Lesley and Jennifer get this, they haven't responded to any contact thus far. It will be harder for the rest of us if we're disadvantaged by having two non-contributing members."

John sat forward in his chair, closing the Patrick O'Brian novel he'd been reading. "Excuse me? Are you... Sherlock, are you taking this seriously then?"

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at him. "Of course. If it's worth doing, it's worth doing well, is it not?"

John sat back again, surprised. "Oh. I just didn't think - you sound like you are in it to win it, is all."

A corner of Sherlock's mouth kicked up. "Do my best. In spite of the restrictions you've placed upon me."

_If anyone could, Sherlock would. He had contacts all over to help assist him. _"All I said is you've got to do at least five. Personally."

The dark head nodded, as fingers tapped out a response to an email just received. John clapped his hands together decisively. "Right! You sent me the list? Good. You run the number generator, I'll read you the item, and pass my judgement." He moved to the table and flipped open his laptop. He couldn't quite suppress a wide smile - he loved Sherlock's intensity, and when he became invested in something, he would throw his heart over the fence in pursuit of his goal. No matter how 'silly', apparently. It was quite endearing.

Sherlock looked up. "Ready when you are."

"Let's have it, then."

Sherlock tapped. "Ninety one."

John scrolled through his list of GISHWHES items. "Ninety one - a photo challenge. Carve a scale model of the Uragh Stone Circle from potatoes, for seventeen points."

Sherlock pursed his lips. "That one seems very Hiberno-centric. We do have an Irish girl on our team - shouldn't we..?"

"I don't think so." John was enjoying this. "Remember, we agreed I would be the judge of whether or not you could do the challenge. This is well within your capabilities."

Sherlock glared. "Do we have potatoes?"

John pretended to ponder. "You know, I don't think we do!"

Sherlock shifted on the sofa. "Could you -?"

"No." John couldn't hold back the smile. "The first part of your challenge, mighty Hunter. Infiltrate the wilds of Tesco, find your prize, and subdue the chip-and-pin machine." Sherlock's expression of distaste was sweet. John savoured the sight. "Here," he said, heart singing as he dug in his pocket for his wallet. "You can use my card."

Sherlock snarled and snatched the plastic rectangle from John's hand.

"I'd say this hitherto-fore undiscovered sadistic streak is not your style, but obviously it is," Sherlock complained. John only smiled beatifically and released a breath of satisfaction as his disgruntled lover slammed the door pointedly on his way out.

"About time you did the shopping, Sherlock." He stretched, deciding he'd duck out for a while to avoid the vitriol Sherlock would pour on him when he came back from the hated shopping excursion. He pulled out his phone and texted Lestrade.

[Up for a pint? JWatson]

Three hours later, John returned to a scene of utter chaos in the kitchen, worse than anything he'd ever seen. There was dirt sifted liberally over the floor, grass, potato peelings and chunks of root vegetable everywhere. It looked as if a chip shop had exploded. John covered his face with his hand and rubbed vigorously. Covering the kitchen table was a small patch of green turf, with several brownish rectangles sticking up. The Uragh stone circle, he guessed. Rather well done, actually - the 'stones' actually looked weathered.

"Sherlock?" he called. "You still here?"

A grunt from the bathroom was his reply. John shrugged and moved to open the fridge, looking for some milk. "Fancy a cuppa?" he called. He paused, hand outstretched to the fridge door. There were several bloody smears adorning the enamel. A number of dread scenarios ran through his head - _attack? enemies? experiment? _

"Sherlock? Are you all right?"

"You may need to go to the shops this time, John. We're out of plasters," came the deep voice. John crossed to the bathroom in several quick strides and wrenched the door open. There stood Sherlock, sleeves rolled up and shirt liberally stained with potato juice and muddy smears. His fingers were covered with sticking-plasters. He was pressing a fat wad of tissues to his left hand. The look on his face was dire. John bit his lip so as not to laugh, but Sherlock's expression grew even stormier.

"Did the Fenians win the battle against the English then?" enquired John. His voice trembled ever so slightly. "I had no idea you were that unhandy at carving - you're quick enough at dissection."

"There is a fundamental difference," said Sherlock with a semblance of dignity, "between cutting things apart and carving things for artistic value. Also, they were slippery."

John carefully did not snigger, but his eyes crinkled. He held out a hand. "Let me." He carefully inspected the cut, held Sherlock's hand under running water to rinse away any dirt and pressed fresh tissue to it. "There are some plasters in my room. I'll get them."

"Thank you, Doctor."

"It looks wonderful, by the way. The, uh. The blood smears on the potatoes are quite - symbolic. But the grass...?"

Sherlock waved his free hand dismissively. "Regent's Park."

John choked. "Sorry. You just went to Regent's Park, and pulled up some turf?" An arched brow was his reply. "Of course you did," murmured John. "Try not to get arrested during the Hunt, please? We don't need you getting an ASBO."

"What, and compete with your criminal record? As if I would, John." Sherlock grinned suddenly, and John grinned back. "First one down."

John's heart warmed at the look of pride on Sherlock's face. "One down, yes. Well done. Don't forget to mail it." This was working out well, this distraction. He only hoped the next one wouldn't be as bloody.

_On to the next._


	4. Like a Red Flag to a Copper

**Part Four - Like a Red Flag to a Coppe**r

From: Misha Collins  
>Date: Monday, November 21rst, 2011<p>

To: Jennifer Bondy clarinetz**, Christine T. Brown cbrown**, Luca Santiago LcaSanta4*, Sherlock Holmes .uk, Jolie Smith smith***.edu, Shiobhan McKane smckane**, Katrinka van den Steene gelatto2*, Lesley N. Anderson , Jamie Coally fak**, Tara Lee Brooke Tara***

Subject: To GISHWHES Team #221

Greetings **Team #221**,

Hi again,

It's been enjoyable conversing with you all over the last two days. I feel like we're quite close now...not in a I-want-to-take-you-home-to-mom kind of way, but more in a I-think-this-could-be-the-start-of-something-big-but-don't-want-to-get-my-hopes-up-so-I-will-play-hard-to-get kind of way.

Even if you had previously connected with your team, you may notice that you now have a new team member. Welcome them. They will help you. We've identified especially talented scavenger hunters-'scav ringers'-to fill out teams that have a missing team-mate

Also, if you visit the Items page on the website, you will see that item #44 has been changed. 'A woman or man completely wrapped in Christmas lights standing on a roof' has been replaced with:

_'You know how cats and dogs shed? Cover someone completely in pet hair. The only thing visible is the person's eyes. Nothing but hair and eyes. You may not shave or harm any animals acquiring this item. (44 points)'_

Anyone who has already submitted a photo of someone on a roof wrapped in lights will receive points. However, from this point forward, any team submitting an image of someone on a roof in Christmas lights will have 20 POINTS DEDUCTED FROM THEIR SCORE.

Happy Hunting!

-Misha

* * *

><p>John brushed off the raindrops clinging to his coat as he entered New Scotland Yard. Sherlock had texted him, wanting some large printed letters on individual glossy sheets that would spell out 'GISHWHES'. It was not for one of the five challenges he had to complete on his own - Sherlock had finished the second late this morning. John hadn't personally witnessed the culmination of that one - Molly had told him about it.<p>

* * *

><p>"Hullo, Doctor Watson speaking. How can I help you?" John was just finishing up his morning shift at the surgery when the receptionist had put the call through.<p>

"Um. John? It's Molly. Molly from Bart's?" The voice was uncertain.

"Molly! Let me guess. Sherlock?" John leaned back in his chair.

"Um, yes?" There was a giggle. "But not the usual problem. He told me to call to say it was finished, and that I'd seen it with my own eyes."

"Oh god. What did he do? Is he bringing parts of it home?"

"No, no! Nothing like that. He texted to tell me to come to the Children's Hospital. It was rather sweet, I would never have guessed it of him. He brought in about fifteen carrier bags of Lego blocks, and had the children help him put together a flag. When I got there, he'd run out of white blocks, and some of the kids were painting red blocks white. The nurses weren't best pleased, but the patients were so happy."

John's mouth twitched. He knew that Sherlock was persuasive, but he'd never suspected the charm would extend to little ones - he usually regarded them as something alien and unpredictable. _Which was generally true_, he thought. _Perhaps he spoke their language?_ Although Sherlock presented a brusque exterior, John knew he was capable of great kindness. He wished he'd been there to see it - Sherlock striding around, jacket possibly smeared with small white fingerprints. Encouraging his charges, helping them assemble the pieces needed for the challenge he'd got earlier that day:

_[29. The Lebanese flag made from Legos. (14 points)]_

"That's.. good. Was there any problem?" John asked.

"No, no! He did ask me to tell you that the cedar tree took some doing - he assembled that part personally. He wanted me to take a picture. I'm sending it to you now."

"Great! Thank you, Molly, for all your help."

"He donated all the blocks to the Children's Hospital. He said he didn't want them, since they came from James May's Lego house and he despises 'Top Gear', but I think I know better." There was a sigh on the other end of the line. "You are lucky, John," she said wistfully.

There was a chime on his phone. [Message received.] John held the phone away from his ear and looked at the photo that had just come through. Sherlock was kneeling on the floor on one leg in front of a Lego Lebanese flag that was about seventy centimetres wide. All around were the smiling faces of his minions waving at the camera. Sherlock's hand rested on the shoulder of a solemn little boy, and a blond haired toddler had draped herself against his side, thumb in her mouth. There was indeed a white hand print on the lower portion of his suit jacket. Sherlock wasn't smiling, exactly, but the narrowness of his eyes and the way his mouth drew in told John everything. He swallowed a lump in his throat.

"Yes," he said. "Yes, I am lucky."

* * *

><p>John sighed at the memory. From that to this, hospital to police station. John nodded to the desk sergeant. "Where?"<p>

"D.I. Lestrade's desk," the woman replied. "Having a flaming argument, last I heard."

"Not locked up, then? That's good."

John walked to where the raised voices emanated.

"Mr. Holmes, I don' wanna do it! It's not natural!" This was from a voice like a gravel pit.

"Yeah, well, I'm not that keen to do it, either." That was D.I. Lestrade.

"For God's sake! I promise it won't be published anywhere! Jolly, you said you owed me a favour for that thing!" Sherlock's irritated tones reverberated.

"I'm not goin' anywhere near him!" John nudged open the door to see the speaker - a large burly man in his thirties with greying hair in a pony tail, a studded leather vest and a belly straining a T-shirt that proclaimed, 'Jolly's Motors - Since 1998'.

"What's all this about?" enquired John. "Sherlock, I've brought you what you asked for."

Lestrade's face was flushed. "Your boyfriend wants a photo of me holding hands with a biker. Says it's for a hunt, a scavenger hunt?"

John nodded. "That's right. Since you've given us nothing new, Sherlock's keeping busy. It's a bit of a long story."

"What, by harassing detective inspectors? I've a ton of paperwork, I don't need this!"

"And I don't need this, either," rumbled the large man. "So, if you don't mind, I've a garage to run..."

Sherlock opened his mouth but John forestalled the man's exit by holding out his hand. "Doctor John Watson. And you are?"

Sherlock flapped a hand. "John, meet Barnabas Phipps."

"Call me Jolly," said the man. A hand like a sack of muscular jelly enveloped John's smaller one. John swallowed.

"And the problem is... that you, um. Don't want to hold hands with a man?" The giant looked disgusted.

"Nah, not that! Got nothin' against that! But he's a copper." Sherlock looked furious, but John held up a hand.

"This is for item number three on the list? A leather-clad biker and a police officer holding hands?"

"Yes," hissed Sherlock.

"But Lestrade's a detective. Wouldn't it be better to have someone in uniform?"

"But, John, Lestrade is -!" "Don't wanna -!" "Thanks, John, now get them out of here -"

"_Girls!_" snapped John. "Calm down. You are in the middle of Scotland Yard, Sherlock - go and _detect _a uniformed officer, and..." He thought a moment, sizing up Jolly. "Make sure she's attractive."

Jolly straightened up. "Oh, now that's the stuff. Wouldn't mind that, so long as the missus never sees." Sherlock glared icy death at John, but left, returning a few minutes later with a tough-faced but curvy female officer. Jolly happily beamed as Sherlock took the picture and the big man left with the officer, chatting her up. John shook his head and thrust the carrier bag of printed letters at Sherlock, who opened it and pulled out the papers.

"Orange, John? Really? Oh well then." Sherlock thumbed through the printouts. "Lestrade. Sorry to have interrupted your so-important paperwork, but now I have to -"

A sharp voice finished the sentence, "Find eight police officers to hold up the signs, spelling out GISHWHES." Sherlock whirled around. Anderson was leaning against the door frame, a file tucked under his arm. Sherlock's eyes narrowed.

"Anderson. Don't tell me you are involved in this."

The thin-faced man looked up at the ceiling, as if in thought. "Am I involved - in the Greatest International Scavenger Hunt the World Has Ever Seen?" He smirked. "Haven't you checked your email?"

John exchanged a glance with Lestrade. _Oh hell, this was not good_. Sherlock's Blackberry was in his hands, and his face twisted up as he read. "You? On Team 221?"

Anderson swung a leg nonchalantly. "Got the notice this morning. I was put on two teams by accident. They assigned me, as an especially talented scavenger hunter - a 'scav ringer' - to 221. Not that I am thrilled to be on the same team as a rule-breaker, mind."

John coughed. Sherlock spat, "What do you mean, rule breaker? I haven't broken any rules!"

Anderson cleared his throat and tapped his left cheek. There was a dark patch on it. "Well, you must have simply forgotten, then. Or deleted it? All men participating in the Hunt are to leave a patch the size of an American quarter unshaven on their left cheek for the duration of the Hunt."

Lestrade and John's heads both swung to Sherlock, who was expression was between murderous and flummoxed. His face was clean-shaven. Anderson straightened up. "Well. It's a good thing I'm here to keep you on the straight and narrow, then, isn't it? Looks like you'll need all the help you can get..."

"If you think I need any 'help' you are likely to give -!"

As Sherlock's voice rose in furious protest, John caught Lestrade's eye and nodded at the door. "Coffee?" They both strolled away from the quarrel. They broke into a jog as Anderson's smug tones answered Sherlock, Lestrade rubbing his mouth to keep from laughing, and John giggling helplessly.

"Oh, it's wrong of me to laugh," gasped John. "But that was..."

"Priceless," agreed the D.I., and they both snickered.

_On to the next challenge!_


	5. So You Think You Won't Dance?

**Part Five - So You Think You Won't Dance?**

From: Misha Collins  
>Date: Tuesday, November 22nd, 2011<p>

Hey guys,

I would have liked to send this reminder about the rules earlier. The good news - you are doing great! We've been getting submissions by the boat load. The not-so good news is when we sent out the 6000 Reminding-of-the-Rules emails, the servers crashed. We are simply too big for the Internet thingy.

We are now resending the messages very carefully, treating each message as if it were a tiny, wounded, fledgling bird. Before sending each batch, we are whispering words of encouragement to the messages and saying silent prayers. Hopefully this gentle, coaxing approach will help them reach you. As a backup, I have also been on the phone with a carrier pigeon supplier this morning.

So, the Rules. When we say we want a picture of you wearing a banana costume and committing Banannibalism in front of a rhinoceros, we do not mean you wearing a banana peel on your head eating a banana split in front of a **poster** of said animal. We mean a living, breathing, stinking rhinoceros.

Thanks for following the Rules of the Hunt, and carry on!

Drink the Kool-aid, it's delicious.

Misha Collins

* * *

><p>When John came down for breakfast on Tuesday, he was mildly surprised to see a gangling, ill-dressed fifty year old man with a largish dog of indeterminate breed on a frayed piece of string in the front room. John blinked, but the mirage didn't shift. Two pairs of soulful brown eyes watched him.<p>

"Um. Hullo?" he asked.

The man shifted back slightly at this, and the dog's mouth gaped, tongue lolling. John watched both carefully, but nothing was forthcoming. "...Sherlock?" John called. "Do we have... visitors?"

Voices and footsteps on the stairs heralded the arrival of his boyfriend and Mrs. Hudson. Their landlady had a tan bundle, and Sherlock had a carrier bag overflowing with clothing. "John!" said Sherlock. "You're awake! Perfect, you can take the photo."

John shook his head to clear it. "Oh. This is from challenge one oh six? A dog dressed in a beige trench coat, white shirt, grey suit, and blue tie?"

"Yes, do keep up! I couldn't find Baskerville and George in their usual haunt, I only caught them down in Fleet street this morning. Here, take this." Sherlock passed over the carrier bag and took the bundle of clothing from Mrs. Hudson. "Now, if you don't mind..." Sherlock seemed to be addressing the dog, who tilted an ear at him, eyebrows lifted. John gave up having a rational conversation before tea as a lost cause and looked helplessly at Mrs. Hudson, who was smiling. She patted his arm.

"I'll get you a cuppa, dear. Won't be a tick."

The wispy haired man watched Sherlock intently as he unrolled the bundle which consisted of a tan overcoat, suit, shirt and blue tie. Sherlock coaxed the dog into standing. He deftly folded up the trouser legs and lifted hind paws into them. A white shirt was pulled into place, sleeves draping over the forepaws extravagantly.

John cleared his throat and tried to smooth down his sleep-rumpled hair. There was no reason to feel out of place in his sleepwear in his own flat, despite having a homeless man, his be-suited dog and his boyfriend doing inexplicably odd things at eight am. "Um. Mr. Baskerville. Would you care for some tea as well?"

The homeless man looked at Sherlock beseechingly. Sherlock looked over his shoulder. "George. His name is George. George, meet Doctor Watson." John blinked.

"Oh. Then this is..." He gestured at the dog, who grinned at him.

"Baskerville." George spoke in a raspy but cultured accent.

John manfully tried to take this in. Really, it was early for this. "Baskerville?"

George nodded his wispy head. "We live behiund a publishing house. It's quite nice and warm." John wrinkled his brow, but Sherlock came to the rescue.

"Baskerville is a beautiful font, George, just like your dog. Isn't that right, John?" Sherlock looked back over a shoulder at him in mischief. John smiled, and the homeless man looked pleased.

"Absolutely."

In short order, Baskerville the hound was dressed and posed with dignity on the leather sofa, sunlight lighting his brown fur, blue tie artfully askew. John took the photo, grinned at Sherlock in congratulations on another task done and passed out mugs of tea from the tray Mrs. Hudson brought up. Baskerville lapped up some water placed in front of him from a clean beaker.

Mrs. Hudson was enjoying herself. "Oh, Sherlock. This has been quite fun! Thank you for including me on the Hunt, I'd been looking for a use for that old suit of Mr. Hudson's." She wrinkled her nose slightly at the memory of her late unlamented spouse.. "It looks better on the dog than it ever did on him, really. Now, what was it you needed me to do next?" Sherlock pulled her into the kitchen and began muttering low-voiced instructions to her.

John sat on the coffee table and smiled at George. "So. What kind of dog is Baskerville?" They both looked at the dog, who was industriously licking himself, leaving a wet patch on the crotch of the suit trousers. George looked dubious.

"Hard to say, really. Mr. Holmes? You seem to know a lot... what's your opinion?"

Sherlock poked his head in. "What? Baskerville? Oh, he's a.. he is a..." He narrowed his eyes. "He's brown." He grabbed the carrier bag and ducked back in to whisper one last thing to a giggling Mrs. Hudson. John shrugged at George. Sherlock bounded back in and grabbed the camera from John. "All right, Mrs. Hudson."

John's mouth dropped open as their landlady emerged from the kitchen with a large handlebar moustache in dark brown. She went directly to the gaping George, bobbed a little curtsy and proffered the carrier bag of clothing. "Mr. George. I would appreciate it, if you would accept these clothes. I've had them for ages, and I think you and and Baskerville might get better use from them. Also, if Baskerville would like to keep the suit?" She smiled as the dumbfounded George took the carrier bad, stared into it and smiled back. Baskerville thumped his tail several times, and Sherlock took the picture.

John clapped appreciatively. "Nicely done. What number was that, Sherlock?"

"Number thirty nine. Purge your closet and get a photo of yourself handing your old clothes to a homeless person directly, while wearing a fake moustache. Only thirteen points, but I thought I'd kill two birds with one stone." Sherlock looked smug. "I know it doesn't count for the five that you set me, John, but now that Anderson is on our team..." his voice trailed off and he scowled.

"I know. You must beat him, and show yourself the better Hunter," John sighed. "God, Sherlock. Just don't burn down any buildings in your quest, please? Well. As we are having a party at 221B Baker street this morning, there's another challenge you could knock off." John quite fancied this one.

Sherlock shoved his hands in his trouser pockets and looked at him. John grinned. "Number one hundred fifty."

"My favourite dance moves? John, I don't think -"

"Oh, come one, Sherlock. Don't tell me you never took formal dance lessons at some point in your posh upbringing! What's your favourite? Go on, tell us," John needled. Mrs. Hudson had hidden her smile behind her tea mug.

Sherlock set his lips mulishly. "Shan't."

"I like the tango," said a hoarse voice. They all looked at George, who shrank suddenly from the attention. "Well, I do. Every bit. Used to do Argentinian style - my parada and sacada are quite good. Quite enjoy the gancho* move." His left eyelid quivered in what almost a wink.

Mrs. Hudson chirped in excitement. "Oh, yes! I would love to see that, Mr. George!"

Sherlock looked relieved. "Perfect. Mrs. Hudson, can you -"

"No," interrupted John. He was feeling quite devilish, what with unexpected events before breakfast. "Her hip."

"Then, you will, John -?"

"My leg," said John sadly.

"Oh, your leg, is it?" shouted Sherlock. "Your leg! It only plays up when you are trying to get out of something, John!" He wasn't actually angry, only resigned. "Fine. Fine! Pull up the music on YouTube or something. Mrs. Hudson, here - the video mode on the camera is just here. George, if you would?" He held a hand out to the skinny man and pulled him up from John's chair. Mrs. Hudson and John hurried to push the chairs and table back, clearing a space. John even rolled back the rug to reveal the wooden floors. Baskerville sat in regal splendour and watched the proceedings with open-mouthed interest.

Sherlock lifted his arms, but George shook his head at him. "Young man, as I have at least fifteen years on you and you are such a shrinking violet, I will lead. Not you." John hastily clapped a hand over his mouth, but Mrs. Hudson didn't restrain her laugh at the look on Sherlock's face. The dancers took up their positions, and John pressed play on 'Por una cabeza.'

It was hardly fair, mused John, as the unlikely pair swayed and turned about their living room. It should have looked ridiculous - the gangly homeless man, the beautifully suited consulting detective dancing while an approving mongrel looked on. But Sherlock made it look so easy. He looked at the clock on his computer. All right, they had a minute of video. He motioned to his landlady, who dimpled and laid down the camera. Walking over, he tapped George on the shoulder.

"Mind if I cut in?" George stepped away and Mrs. Hudson stepped into his arms. John grinned at his lover, who had a crooked smile. "Shall I lead?"

"Oh, if you must," sighed the detective dramatically, and John pulled him in close, pressing a quick kiss at the corner of his flat-mate's jaw. They danced, and Baskerville thumped his tail before turning around several times and settling down with sigh.

* * *

><p><em>*parada - the leader puts their foot against the follower's, so they move together<em>

_sacada - one dancer displaces the other's foot by stepping into their space_

_gancho - sexy move where one __hooks one's leg around one's partner's leg or body_


	6. Lies and Bacon

**Part Six - Lies and Bacon**

_Wednesday, November 23rd, 2011_

**Rules and Regulations for the first annual Greatest International Scavenger Hunt the World Has Ever Seen (GISHWHES)  
>Give us Bureaucracy or Give us Death!<br>All of the following rules must be observed at all times during the Hunt.**

READ THEM CLOSELY! If you fail to follow any of the rules, or if you wilfully violate any of the rules, your team will be docked points and may be disqualified. Some of these rules are designed to ensure fairness and safety, others are designed to confuse and frustrate you, still others serve no purpose whatsoever, but it is essential that you follow them all to the letter.

**4. Google Forgery** – Authentication: We will make sure every submission is authentic. Our team uses Google search-by image to make sure you have not copied images from the Internet. If we discover forged item submissions from a team, we will disqualify the entire team. In other words, _do not cheat._

**5. Complaining:** Any whining, whimpering, yelling, screaming, crying, tantrum-throwing, challenging or contesting the judges or contest results will result in immediate disqualification and revocation of your GISHWHES citizenship. **Seduction, however, is allowed under certain circumstances.**

**11. Breaking the law: **As appealing as it might be, don't get arrested. Every item in the list could conceivably be photographed or filmed legally (in most countries).

**12. Injury of others: **Don't hurt anyone physically, emotionally, or metaphysically.

**14. Leashes: **No photo or video of a submitted item can show a leashed dog. **Leashed cats and leashed Iguanas, however, are fine.**

**15. Cheating: Hacking into opposing teams' mainframes, slashing tires, laying booby traps, or stealing scavenged items, will not be tolerated.**

* * *

><p>John yawned and rolled over. The space next to him was cool, the pillow uncreased. He sighed and pulled the sheet over his head. He'd done it to himself, getting Sherlock into the Scavenger Hunt. That damned violin torture had driven him to it. And now... now the detective had really caught the spirit, not to mention an edge of competitiveness against his team-mate Anderson. When John had gone to bed last night, Sherlock had still been working on two of the web challenges.<p>

* * *

><p><em>The night before<em>

"Ridiculously easy! Create a website that proves Creationists wrong for fourteen points? Child's play."

John shuffled over in his sleepwear, leaning over his lover's thin shoulder. "What about this one? Create a website that proves Creationists _right?_It's worth much more - eighty nine points." Sherlock just raised a brow, and John chuckled. "Right. Creationism is illogical and unscientific. Forgot who I was speaking to."

Sherlock leaned his head against John's shoulder. "Mm. What I am actually excited about is number two fifteen. Create a website that maps the location and intensity of lies. It's a bit of a farce, but an interesting social piece as well."

John rested his head against the dark one. "Good point. Where would most liars be located? Prisons?"

"In the U.K.? Whitehall," said Sherlock darkly. "Who lies the most, after government officials?"

"Teenagers? Salespeople? People trying to pick up a member of the opposite sex?"

"Oh, good, John!" Sherlock pulled away and rattled at the keyboard. "I can make it a layered map. One that references dates and time as well - fewer lies are told during sleeping hours, more in the afternoons and evenings. What are the worst lies?"

John thought. "Well for intensity, I would say the weakest lies are the ones told by little kids, so schools wouldn't be as dense. As for the worst lies - well. Tends to be circumstantial. Infidelity seems to have to engender the biggest reaction, if crimes scenes are any indication." He ran a hand down the slim back, feeling the warmth through the fine cotton. "You coming to bed?"

"Not now, John. Later."

John gave it up as a lost cause. "Don't forget. Tomorrow I'm at the surgery, so we have to pull up your next challenge before I go to work. All right?"

There was no response and John turned away. A hand caught his wrist and reeled him in for a thorough good night kiss, before he was unceremoniously pushed away again. Regretfully John went upstairs, shaking his head.

* * *

><p><em>Maybe he'd been wrong, pushing Sherlock into this, <em>mused John from beneath his sheet cocoon. It was getting to be as bad as when they were on a case - little food, little sleep, nicotine patches. _No sex._ And this was only the fourth day, they had six more to go. Hopefully Sherlock would avoid collapse, adhere to the Rules, avoid being arrested in pursuit of his Items and live to shag John for England once again.

Out there was an obsessed boyfriend. Under the sheet was warmth and sanity. Unfortunately, also out there was tea, breakfast, then work. John threw back the covers and joined the cold cruel world.

Downstairs a cooling cup of tea awaited him. Sherlock was lying on the couch, eyes on the ceiling. John took the mug.

"Thanks. Did you finish them? The websites?"

An affirmative grunt was his reply. John grimaced. Yes, _just like a case. _He thumped the mug down. "Well, on to the next. You ready for your next challenge? Two more to go." Sherlock held out his hand, and John stepped over and irritatedly slapped his Blackberry into it. Sherlock tapped, then read out loud.

"Number ninety six, a video challenge - an extreme close up of a pimple being popped while whistling Beethoven's fifth -"

"No."

Sherlock twisted to look at him. "No? But I could easily find someone who-"

"_No._There is such a thing as taste. That is beyond the pale. We are English, and we are going to stand upon our dignity for this one. I'm exercising my right to veto."

"You're sure, then." Sherlock nodded. "It wasn't worth that many points. Fine."

"Good morning!" There was a perfunctory tap at the door, and Mrs. Hudson entered with a plate of scones. John blessed her and took one. "What wasn't worth many points?"

"Oh, this challenge for the Hunt we were discussing," said John. "Sherlock was just about to pick another."

Sherlock sat up, waving away the proffered scones. "All right. Our next number." He punched the keypad with a flourish and turned it to face John, who leaned in and read.

"Sixty two, a photo of a woman wearing a dress, and only the dress, made entirely from bacon." He whistled softly. "Forty three points, not bad. But where will you get that much bacon?"

"Tesco's, of course, John. But that's not important! I need to know how much I need? How many square centimetres of bacon are contained in a package? I suppose I can use something behind as a support - plastic wrap and fishing line to stitch. Unless it just adheres to skin?" He wrinkled his nose. "It's going to be an unholy mess to make. _Mrs. Hudson!_" He turned to the older woman who started. "How much fabric is needed to made a sleeveless dress? With no wastage?"

The older woman pondered. "Oh, let's see. For a close-fitting mini-dress? Normally I'd say a metre and a half, but you'll be piecing it, as it were. Let's see, twenty four inches by about thirty six, double it for the back..."

"Good. Now, the size of a rasher. John?"

John snorted. "Of course,_ I_ would know. When have you ever made me breakfast?"

Sherlock looked wounded. "There was that one time, after the case of the otter pelt sporran..."

"I prefer not to think about either the case or that plate of non-comestibles you placed in front of me. Never mind that it was in bed, which was rather romantic for you. Call that breakfast? It _shattered_ when I put the fork into it. Anyway. A rasher is about six inches by about one or two. The biggest packs have twenty four in them."

Sherlock murmured as he tapped. "Surface area of about sixty centimetres average for a rasher... means we need one hundred sixty of them. Seven packs? Wait, overlap. Let's call it twelve to be certain, in case of spoilage or materials break-down during the construction." He leapt to his feet preparatory to sweeping out the door.

_Astonishing, _thought John. _He's willingly going to Tesco's twice this week?_ A thought intruded. "Sherlock. Who in the world are you going to convince to wear a meat dress? Besides Lady Gaga, that is."

The tall man halted._ It __was a serious problem. _"Lady Who?"

_Oh. So much for pop culture again. _John persisted. "I mean, really. Do you know any rational female you can drag in to be clothed in a dress that will leave her smelling like smoked bacon?"

"Oh, I'd do it," said Mrs. Hudson. "Worn stranger things when I was young. I was a bit wild when I was in my twenties." She sighed happily. "The Sixties were wonderful. Not that I remember them." She winked at John, who was grinning broadly.

Sherlock appeared to have turned into a pillar of salt. He swallowed with difficulty and took some time before he spoke in a mild tone. "Mrs. Hudson. I appreciate your sacrifice, but I couldn't ask you to pose in something so..." He cast about frantically for an appropriate word, gave it up. "Unsanitary. And revealing."

Mrs. Hudson waved that consideration away. "Don't be silly, Sherlock. It's not like you're interested in women, being the way you are and so devoted to your doctor. It's all in fun, and I think I still have a pair of go-go boots at the back of my wardrobe. Besides, I've worn a lot less, in fact. Was a bit of a swinger."

John laughed outright at the look on Sherlock's face. "Is that so, Mrs. Hudson?" _Really, _he thought. _I can't believe Sherlock is shocked. He needs to get out more, poor protected lad. Being old doesn't make you sexless. How the great detective not deduced this before about their landlady?_

"Oh, yes. Plastic wrap will be nothing new." Sherlock twitched but their landlady didn't notice. "I still read the personal ads in The Guardian," she confided, and John patted her arm.

"You are marvellous, Mrs. Hudson. I think I love you," John said. An odd noise escaped Sherlock and they both looked at him. Sherlock's face was a smooth mask. He smiled as he capitulated but his eyes were begging John.

_Please? Veto this. Say I don't have to. John, please. Please?_

John heaved a breath and looked his dismayed lover in the eye with a sad look. John grasped Sherlock on both bony shoulders and planted a farewell kiss on his cheek. "I hate to leave and miss all this," he said with unfeigned disapointment. "But - I'm off to work, dear." He just managed to restrain a yelp when Sherlock hugged him and bit his ear. Hard.

"You'll pay for this tonight, John Watson," came the fervent growl. John's shoulders shook as he imagined the morning ahead of Sherlock. _I hope I do, Sherlock, I really hope so._

* * *

><p><em>Later that day<em>

"I'm a bit peckish. Want a sandwich?" John opened the fridge and blinked. "Bacon buttie, perhaps?"

It was amazing the range and trajectory the Union Jack pillow could achieve when it was flung hard enough by a furious consulting detective.


	7. Bears on the Beach

**Part Seven - Bears on the Beach**

* * *

><p><strong>Friday, November 25th, 2011<strong>

John scrubbed at his hair protectively as he followed Sherlock into Angelo's. "No. Absolutely not, you madman. I've sacrificed a lot to your whims, including the bulk of my sanity, but not my hair."

Sherlock sniffed. "It's not a precious substance, John. You are not Samson, losing your strength each time you get a haircut. Besides, afterwards we can clip it down to a nice military shortness."

"Bugger off, Sherlock. Forfeit your own hair, you vain git."

Sherlock helped John from his coat. The acrid smell of smoke clung to both of them. John pondered how close they'd come to breaking Rule #11 of GISHWHES - don't break the law (or as Sherlock interpreted it, don't get caught). Thankfully when the petrol-powered turtle-neck sweater had begun smoking and burst into green flames, they'd been in a fire department's training facility and extinguishers had been close to hand.

Still, Sherlock was pleased to have another thirty five points, More importantly, he was still ahead of Anderson, who'd boastfully told of the palliative qualities of Snake Oil in a rather well-shot video he'd made. Apparently Anderson had friends within an ad agency that helped him spin up an excellent script. John was sure the video would get the full 79 points, if not more.

"But I love the feel of a nice trim, John," Sherlock coaxed. "Like rough velvet. I particularly love how it feels against my stomach when you do that -"

"Right, that's enough!" interrupted John hastily, driving away the lustful image that had popped up immediately. "It's not going to happen. Find some other poor sap. Anyway, I thought you liked something to hold onto."

The challenge they were arguing over was the last of the five random selections John had approved. He'd laughed out loud when the random number generator had pulled up number one hundred forty one.

_141. The word GISHWHES shaved into a hairy belly, back or back of the head. (23 points)_

That is, he'd laughed until Sherlock had begun his campaign to style John's hair in a fresh post-modern way. He eyed Sherlock with disgruntlement as he flipped open the menu. Sherlock pursed his lips, gaze turning inward as he no doubt plotted which of his street acquaintances he could con into joining more GISHWHES madness.

"John, Sherlock. What can I get for you tonight?" Angelo loomed up suddenly. John smiled up at balding, pony-tailed proprietor.

"Think I'll just go with the special, tonight, thanks. You, Sherlock?"

Sherlock ignored the question. "If I want full points for style, I suppose for interest's sake I should find someone with a hairy back instead. Extreme hirtsutism isn't terribly common in Englishmen, however."

A laughing female voice called, "Angelo is a bit of a bear, though." Angelo growled as a tiny Asian in her early thirties wearing a server's apron made her way over. "Why-ever are you looking for one, Sherlock? Because if you have an interest, find your own. This shaggy Rupert is mine." She wound an arm around the sheepish Angelo's waist.

"Hiromi, please," the burly man complained without any heat. "Gentlemen, my girlfriend Hiromi. Hiromi, this is John and Sherlock, as you've already guessed." She smiled at the doctor and detective.

Sherlock's eyes were alive with interest. "A hairy back? Is that so... and you're taking a holiday to Majorca soon."

"How did you know?" asked Hiromi. Angelo just shook his head and John sighed in amusement as Sherlock leaned forward with his most charming smile, fingers interlaced beneath his chin.

"Nothing like a holiday in the winter, is there, Hiromi? I suppose you'll both be spending some time picking up some colour on the beaches. So, I have a little proposition that might work for both of us..."

* * *

><p><em>All things considered, that had gone well,<em> thought John. And he doubted he'd ever quite erase the images of Sherlock with clippers bent over Angelo as a grinning Hiromi watched. And how clearly GISHWHES could be read on the unfortunate man's back through the pelt. 'Bear' was an understatement.

Though he wished he could delete them. John squinched his eyes closed and ran a hand over the smooth skin of his lover's slumbering torso in silent thanksgiving.


	8. Evidence of Affection

**Part Eight - Evidence of Affection  
><strong>

* * *

><p><strong>November 29th, 2011 - the final day of GISHWHES.<strong>

_Who knew Molly could throw such a great party? _thought John. And in the morgue too, making a last generous contribution towards Anderson's and Sherlock's GISHWHESian insanity.

_[194. A birthday party in a morgue. (24 points)]_

Granted, only Sherlock would make the event his own by pulling out a drawer and arguing with Anderson and their hostess over the post-mortem of a recent arrival. With a party hat on, too - Sherlock, that is. Not the corpse. No, the corpse had a computer printed paper mask of Winston Churchill on. When John had asked about the theme, Molly had only shrugged.

"It said birthday party. I don't know anyone whose birthday is today - so. Everyone's." Hence, party attendees - doctors, interns, ambulance drivers - anyone who had a morbid sense of humour and a taste for free cider and cheap lager - had paper masks of Ben Stiller, Ridley Scott and other famous people born on this day. _Brilliant,_thought John, and told Molly so. She blushed in pleasure, and even more so when Sherlock shook her hand, thanking her in a rare show of appropriate social behaviour. He'd pulled her aside for a few words as John watched benignly.

"How was it for you, Greg?" John asked. The DI swigged from his plastic cup with a half-grimace of remembrance.

"Bit of a close call with a garage once - they couldn't understand why Anderson wanted a picture of one tow truck pulling another. But you just try to convince a judge of Old Bailey to wear a Darth Vader mask! I thought Anderson would be clapped in irons for sure - the old man nearly had a fit. Thought we were trying to make a political statement. Got that sorted quickly enough, the picture looked great with the wig and all... Only nearly cost us out jobs. The berk. And don't talk to me about kale chandeliers."

John nodded. "Better than watching your boyfriend nearly start swinging from a movie marquee when he's trying to put up the phrase, 'Minions do it better'. I told Sherlock that ladder was too unstable. Christ, I thought he'd punched his ticket for sure." Lestrade snorted.

"On the other hand, that video Sherlock shot of that woman reading, 'Horton Hears a Who' in that business suit... phooargh. _Thank you,_" said the DI fervently. "Who _was_that?"

"Oh, Anthea is an acquaintance of Sherlock's. He wanted to have his brother read Dr. Suess, but Mycroft refused. Would have been hilarious, he sounds even more posh than Sherlock. Still, yeah. Anthea."

They both sighed in appreciation. Across the room Anderson rolled his eyes at the detective who was gesticulating and talking rapidly, nearly sloshing his cider onto the corpse. But the forensics specialist had a small smile on his face and when Sherlock turned to search out John, his face was relaxed and slightly flushed.

"It's been a weird ten days," said Lestrade, watching Sherlock weave his way past a knot of lab techs towards them.

"Absolutely," agreed John.

"Like some bizarre version of hell."

"Yes. Thank god it's over in three hours." He caught Lestrade looking at him and both grinned simultaneously. "Maybe next year?"

"Definitely. As long as we're in the same group," said Lestrade.

"Team Thin Blue Line, or Consulting Scavengers?" asked Sherlock as he reached them. "It would be a good team building exercise for your people, at the very least. John!" He ducked and gave his lover a hard kiss. "Initial impressions to the contrary, this was worth it. Quite enjoyable. Thank you for convincing me to do it. It was excellent mental exercise."

John grinned and pulled the ridiculous paper hat from Sherlock's head and smoothed down the curls. "You did brilliantly. I knew you would."

"Who says I'm done?" queried the detective. "Molly. Can you bring it over? Lestrade, grab that camera."

Lestrade picked up the digital camera, scowling. "Sherlock, you can't just nick our crime scene cameras like that -"

"Sorry, sir," said Anderson, edging his way to stand next to his superior. "It was my doing. We'll definitely need it for photographic evidence in just a minute."

John's brow wrinkled as Molly appeared with a metal trolley, on top of which was a foil wrapped box with a bright red ribbon. "What's this? Sherlock, you know it's not my birthday."

Sherlock huffed. "Of course I know, John. This is the last challenge I'll be doing. Go on, then. He passed off his cup to Mike Stamford and shoved his hands in his trouser pockets with studied nonchalance. John eyed him with misgiving.

"This isn't the gold-plated toilet plunger, is it? Or a sculpture of a seagull made from women's sanitary products, is it?" Someone in the watching crowd hooted and Sherlock grinned.

"No. Nothing like that."

John untied the ribbon and pulled off the lid to reveal a froth of crumbled tissue. He pulled some away and snorted. He pulled out a mobile and cocked an eyebrow at his lover.

"An upgrade," explained Sherlock.

"Self-serving, since you are always nicking mine. Still, thanks."

"There's more," piped Molly. John pulled up more tissue and then grinned, pulling out a plastic jug.

"You always complain how put-upon you are, lover," intoned Sherlock. "So. I got the milk for once."

Anderson barked a laugh at the expression on John's face. Biting his lip to keep from giggling, John delved further. There was a second box within, and he lifted the lid and stared down into the contents. His brows drew together and he looked at Sherlock. Then he carefully lifted out a teacup and saucer. "Tea?" he asked. "You made me tea?"

Sherlock nodded. "If I may?" he asked, and took the delicate china cup and drank half the cup in a theatrical swallow.

"Typical," said John, and the crowd laughed. Sherlock quirked a half smile and gave John the cup, turning it so John's lips would press the same spot where his own had just rested.

"Wanted you to have the best cup of tea I could make," he explained. John's eyes crinkled in amusement, and someone, probably Molly, went 'Aww.' John raised the delicate china and drank. Something clacked against his teeth and he hastily lowered the cup. Resting at the bottom was a gold man's ring. He lifted it out and held it between thumb and forefinger. He drew in a breath and raised amazed eyes.

Sherlock cleared his throat nervously. "John Hamish Watson. Would you do me the great honour of -"

"Yes," interrupted John, and there was a great cheer from all assembled. In the next instant, Sherlock was in his arms and they were kissing. John was scarcely aware of the flash of the camera. Long moments later, he pulled away laughing in disbelief. "You maniac. You proposed to me during Winston Churchill's birthday party in a morgue with a cup of _tea._ You utter lunatic. I love you. You need to be _sectioned._"

"You accepted. Who needs hospitalizing here?" returned Sherlock, smiling broadly. "Lucky thing we're at Bart's already. And this is where we met. It seemed appropriate. Besides, I did say you were the most unique thing I could ever scavenge. John, you must know, you are the only one for me -"

Again he was interrupted as John wrenched him down by the collar for a bruising tea-flavoured kiss. Sherlock's hand tangled in John's hair and a long arm snaked around to pull the doctor closer, pressing the length of their bodies together. John moaned and the kiss softened to a brush of lips. The detective expelled a shaky breath. "Would it be appropriate to leave now?"

John pressed his forehead to Sherlock's shoulder and choked a laugh. "Not quite yet. But we can sneak out and celebrate the end of GISHWHES and our engagement in time-honoured fashion at Baker street in, say, an hour?" Sherlock groaned at the delay, but John pulled away, still holding his lover's hand. "Meantime, everyone. Excuse me? Everyone, thank you. Thank you for this. Molly, get that music playing again, we've something to celebrate. Sherlock and I are getting married!"

There was a second cheer, and the music began pumping out an old Motown tune by Stevie Wonder. Sherlock grinned madly and pulled John in for a fast whirl.

_-Here I am, baby - signed, sealed, delivered, I'm yours!-_

"What challenge number was that?" shouted John over the music.

Sherlock only lifted a brow. "Can't you guess? One hundred forty seven."

John's feet slowed as he mentally reviewed the list. Then his smile dawned as bright as sunlight, answered by Sherlock's. Christ, he loved the man.

_**[147. Show true love. (44 points)]**_

* * *

><p><em>Nothing next but an epilogue, folks!<em>


	9. Epilogue

**The Structural Composition of Folly - Epilogue**

* * *

><p>From: Misha Collins<br>Date: December 20th, 2011 3:07:37 AM GMT+09:00  
>To: .uk<br>Subject: And the winner is... 

**Greetings Gishwhesheans, and Team 221!**

The winner is... _wait for it..._

Allow me to explain my process in judging the literally 10s of thousands of items submitted. As you know, I like to be thorough and fair, so I look at each submission for 5 minutes without blinking. Then, I record my impressions in essay form. (If I blink, I start the clock again.) Then, to make sure there is not a circadian bias, I also recheck each submission at midnight, sunrise, high noon, and sunset, and again record my feelings, this time in the form of improvised song.

Also, to make sure I am really giving each masterpiece its due, I dream about the items during brief concussion-induced black-outs throughout the day and when I come to, I paint my dreams in oil on large canvases. As a final precaution, to eliminate human error, I share my essays, songs, and paintings with a particle physicist, a statistician, an ordained priest, and a psychotherapist, and make an audio recording of their feedback in an invented language only we speak. Then, and only then, do we assign points. While this is obviously an efficient process, it does take some time.

_'Yes, all right, Misha!'_ I hear you thinking. _'Shut your pie hole and tell us who won already!'_

I have to tell you, this was not an easy decision. There were dozens of incredible teams and thousands of ass-kicking submissions. I was blown away by your creativity, enthusiasm and by the chaos you all created. Thanks for being a collective inspiration.

Now. The winner is…

**Team 221. **They were simply amazing. They went above and beyond, they _usually _followed the rules, they walked away with the most points and they won. To everyone one Team 221, I look forward to meeting you in Rome.

Thank you for mostly following the Rules of the Hunt.

And that's why I love you,

Misha.

* * *

><p>Sherlock showed John the message on his mobile, eyes narrowed in pleasure at his team's victory. John smiled lazily and tucked his head against Sherlock's shoulder, hitching a leg over his lover's long ones.<p>

"Congratulations, Mr. Holmes-Watson. Another thing to celebrate."

"Indeed. Starting now, I think." John's giggle was quickly muffled as Sherlock rolled over and pressed his mouth to his husband's.

_Thank God for GISHWHES_, was the doctor's last thought before the consulting detective drove all others from his mind.

* * *

><p>~Really the end this time. I swear.~<p>

Thanks to the prompter, without whose idea I would never have immortalized the madness of The Greatest International Scavenger Hunt The World Has Ever Seen. Also, to the lovable and insane Misha Collins whose brainchild the Hunt was, and from whose emails I freely quoted and redacted.

Special thanks to J., who involved me in GISHWHES by proxy, and with whom I thrashed out the system for choosing challenges for Sherlock to do while we ate British meat pies in a pub in Tokyo. We actually did choose the five by random number generator, and tossed the ones that Sherlock couldn't do personally due to geography or whatever. See, I do strive for authenticity even in my crack.

THERE, J.! I am glad you liked it. Next time I will definitely sign up for the Hunt!


End file.
